


all the king's horses

by mikkal



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Assault, Blood and Injury, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Feels Pain, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has Feelings, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has PTSD, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Stay tuned for fluff, THERE ARE SO MANY CONNOR TAGS, The fluff comes later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-25 19:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: Nothing bad ever happens when he walks Sumo.Not everything is sunshine and daisies after the deviants won their freedom through peaceful means. But while the anti-android sentiments are expected, no one can predict what happens when Connor decides to walk Sumo one morning only to run into some androids with their own kind of agenda.





	all the king's horses

**Author's Note:**

> my first leap in the dbh fandom! Wow, it's been a while I've been this into a fandom. I've been non-stop playing the game for like...a week? Two weeks? I don't know
> 
> WARNING: there is assault in this story, and the aftermath. None of it is sexual. There are also some self-worth issues and suicidal thought processes.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! I'm kind of nervous, I usually write straight fantasy and I definitely don't know enough about computers and whatnot to be super confident about some aspects of this. But I did my best and I'm kind of proud of it!

Nothing bad ever happens when he walks Sumo.

It’s the calmest Connor gets, on the mostly empty streets far too soon in the day for early bird humans and even too late for the night owls.

Only occasionally does he see androids pass by. But even with months since the revolution and the wildfire of deviancy, not many are willing to brave it out in the open without the mixed crowds to watch their backs. There are still too many anti-android sentiments, protests popping up like weeds, and not enough pro-android people are willing to risk speaking out.

And it’s not like androids have _jobs_ , oh no. Smaller mom’n’pop stores are willing to hire deviants and look the other way when it comes to the fact that androids can’t legally hold jobs or earn a wage yet, but they still can’t stay open twenty-four/seven.

So, the streets are practically empty.

Connor likes walking Sumo at these times.

It’s easier to think, the rhythmic pattern of his steps and the reliable sounds of Sumo huffing and sniffing soothes any anxieties that pop up when he lets his mind wander. In these last few months, his mind’s wandered quite a bit. Connor’s probably one of the few models actively built with a calmer disposition, needed for his line of work and for the so-called “built in deviancy” Amanda taunted him with in that garden. Can’t have him self-destructing from stress before he can assassinate all their hopes and dreams, can they?

But even with all those little failsafes and his own ability to keep himself calm, he can’t help the creeping anxiety that makes his synthetic heart pound and his shoulders inch up towards his ears.

‘Consulting’ for the Detroit police had been so much easier when he didn’t have emotions—or hadn’t been aware of them—and when empathy was a malfunction, not a feature. Between work and still dodging New Jericho, especially her leaders… (Markus’ heartfelt, triumphant speech. Cold and snow and ice. A gun, heavy in his hand. _No_.) Even…Even being an RK800 isn’t enough.

Maybe he should find a place to download that new patch that’s supposed to help mitigate some of the nastier side effects of stress, like the self-destruction. He’s seen it advertised around and it seems legitimate. Like anti-anxiety medications for a human.

It’s not for everyone, but when has anything ever been? Maybe it’ll be for him. He should try, Hank would probably be all for it. The man is atrocious at caring for himself, but he’s seemed to have latched onto Connor’s wellbeing with surprising ferocity.

Connor sighs and adjusts his hat, shoving his free hand into his jacket pocket once more. Sumo tugs a little at the leash, aching to sniff something Connor, in no world, is actually going to let him sniff. He gives up with a huff after a few tries, giving the RK800 a forlorn look before trudging along. Connor can’t help but laugh.

He spots a trio of androids on the corner of an intersection, heads bowed to each other as they whisper. Occasionally they lapse into gestures only, but there’s something off about them enough for Connor to tell they’re just interfacing, talking more securely. He hasn’t interfaced with another android in a while, he’s surprised to feel a pang of longing. He shakes the feeling away, guilt sliding into its place.

One of them is a WB200 model, the other two are both AP700s. He’s shocked to realize that while the AP700s have the same exact face, one of them has longer black hair compared to the default short blonde style his companion wears.

Connor absently touches his own head, blocked from his hair by the maroon knitted beanie he’d pulled from somewhere. He hadn’t realized more androids were taking advantage of their appearance options. Kara did, she looked so different than what her default model had been advertised. And he knows that the blue haired Traci model from the Eden Club—who settled on the name Marian—altered her looks to distance herself from her past. But he hadn’t realized…

The WB200 looks up abruptly, making sudden eye contact with Connor. He jumps, badly enough to surprise himself, and grips Sumo’s leash tighter, ducking his head and turning to walk away. Nope, he can’t deal with other androids right now. Nope.

“Hey!”

Connor startles again.

>>STRESS_LEVELS_12% ˄˄

He swears quietly, unsure why he’s so paranoid and jumpy today. It’s been a pretty good week, honestly. And he’s never had any problems walking Sumo before. Connor takes a deep breath and turns back to the trio, confused when he sees them crossing the street towards him.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

The WB200 is in the lead. He’s dressed down despite the chill of an early March cold snap, making it no secret he’s not human despite the lack of an LED. His eyes are an unusual purple color that Connor’s scans automatically pick up as biocomponent #8953p. An upgrade from one of those new accessory shops? The WB200 peers closely at his face, lingering where his LED is even though he’s sure it’s covered by the beanie.

“Is that your dog?”

Connor blinks in confusion. “Yes.” He reels Sumo in, nudging the dog behind his legs. He’s a beast of an animal, they look ridiculous.

The WB200 raises an eyebrow incredulously. “Are you sure about that?”

>>STRESS_LEVELS_23% ˄˄

Connor raises an eyebrow back. “Yes? Of course I am. His name is Sumo.” He’s every much his dog now as he is Hank’s, the older man even said so in not so many words.

The AP700s flank him, leaving him with a brick wall to his back and completely surrounded. Connor had stopped his programs from automatically scanning for identities even after he regained permission for the various databases that he’d been locked out of after going deviant. It’s not the polite thing to do, already knowing so much about a person when they first meet—.

But now he lets his programs do their job.

The black haired AP700 has registered his name as Marth Anthony, an unusual play on a classic name, date of birth as 2037-13-07. He vaguely wonders the significance. The second AP700 is Lawrence Taylor, date of birth also 2037-13-07, already has a record for theft. Based on the date of that, he must have been one of the first androids ever legally arrested and processed. (Of course, _those_ laws came first.)

The WB200 has no name listed, just a model number, and no record.

>>STRESS_LEVELS_29% ˄˄

Connor isn’t sure what to do.

His pre-construct is useless; he has no solid data on any of them and Sumo is a wild card as an animal. He has no one to call but Hank, who is passed out hard after a night of moderate drinking (he’s getting better), or dispatch, who probably doesn’t have anyone nearby and he’s unwilling to bother them. He technically has Markus’ number and Simon’s, but he’d…he’d rather not bother them. He’s blowing this out of proportion, he just knows it. His paranoia is getting in the way.

(It’s one of those new things that came with deviancy, something he won’t admit to: lying to yourself.)

“He’s a cute dog,” Taylor, the blonde AP700, says. There’s something dark underlying his words.

Connor crowds Sumo closer to the wall. His heart feels like a hummingbird’s wings in his chest, the excess amount of thirium flooding his systems makes his gyroscope fritz him into a dizzy spell.

>>STRESS_LEVELS_38% ˄˄

“What do you want?” he demands. “I have somewhere to be.”

The WB200 sneers, expression twisting in a kind of hate he’s only seen at anti-android protests and during difficult cases. “Of course, you do,” he spits. “You gotta go back to your owner, right?” He jabs a finger to the center of Connor’s chest, making him take a step back.

It shouldn’t hurt, but his tactile and pain sensors are going haywire even though there’s no errors. Everything is ramped up past acceptable levels and for some reason he can’t dial them down.

It _shouldn’t_ hurt. Connor’s chest smarts, he resists the urge to rub the spot. It _does_ hurt.

The WB200 continues with: “Gotta walk their dog like a good little servant. Never mind we worked our asses off to get you your freedom.”

>>STRESS_LEVELS_47% ˄˄

>>SEEK_LESS_STRESSFUL_ENVIRONMENT

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Connor was made to fight androids—that was his whole _purpose_ , the whole reason he’s even alive right now—the fact that he’s more than formidable against humans had been an unnecessary but useful side effect.

He was made to fight androids.

But not like this.

Not with them so close and Sumo right there.

His strength is better than any model recently off the line, except maybe Markus as an RK200, his speed more so. He just…his body won’t move; the signals are getting thrown back in error messages that _shouldn’t be appearing_. Three determined androids against an unarmed one and with a dog are leaning towards probabilities and statistics that he doesn’t like. If he were just a machine, this would be so much easier. But staring into the eyes of hate and disgust, something—something keeps him frozen.

“I think you do,” Anthony, the black haired AP700, says. Quick as can be, he snatches the beanie from Connor’s head, throwing it into a puddle, and revealing Connor’s LED spinning a sickly yellow with flickers of red. “See!” he tells the others, gesturing violently towards Connor’s temple. “I knew I saw something.”

>>STRESS_LEVELS_59% ˄˄

>>STRESS_REACHING_UNADVISED_LEVELS

>>SEEK_LESS_STRESSFUL_ENVIRONMENT

“You don’t want to do this,” Connor says.

And that’s all he gets to say.

Pain sparks in his knee. Connor arches away from it, from the knife Taylor’s jammed into the back of the joint where a bundle of nodes sit, only to stumble and crash to the ground when Anthony kicks in his other knee. Sumo barks at the sudden movement, but the WB200 shoves the dog away with disgusting ease. His leash falls through Connor’s lax fingers. The pain came on so suddenly his visual processors are having a tough time keeping up with all the signals. Everything blurs together, even his HUD.

Anthony shoves him all the way down with a boot heel between his shoulder blades. Connor lays sprawled out on his stomach for a long second, cold seeping through his clothes, the freezing asphalt almost burning on his bare cheek, before everything snaps back into clarity.

He swings up an arm without thinking, catching someone in their own knee, sending them staggering with a curse, and heaves up on his good knee, grabbing another person’s ankle. He yanks it sideways remorselessly.

Connor fights back even as blue blood drips sluggishly down his calf, even as his tactile and pain sensor freak the _fuck_ out. He’s fought in worse. He’s been _shot_ and always kept going despite everything. He doesn’t understand why this is so hard, why he seems to be moving so slowly as if he’s trying to claw his way through mud. There’s a lump of panic and fear in his throat. He may have had emotions for a good few months now, but _he doesn’t know how to handle this_.

The WB200 comes up from behind, snaking an arm around Connor’s throat tightly, thumb pressed dangerously soft behind his ear. He freezes, breathes coming out in frosted steam as his suddenly heated systems attempt to cool down. Something sharp digs into the temple just below his LED, the pain response programed into his skin projection firing off warning messages.

 _Where’s Sumo_?

>>OBJECTIVE_LOCATE_SUMO

>>STRESS_LEVELS_70% ˄˄

>>STRESS_REACHING_UNADVISED_LEVELS

>>PLEASE_SEEK_LESS_STRESSFUL_ENVIRONMENT

“Now,” the android whispers just as soft against his ear. “You’re going to be a good little deviant and let us take out this LED. You don’t belong to them anymore; you don’t have to show it like this.”

Connor’s entire body thrums with tension as he pants. “Don’t belong to anyone,” he grits out.

“See? Exactly.” The knife digs in further, beading blue blood. It slips down his cheek, drips off his chin. “You don’t belong to anyone,” he coos, “let me help you.”

He slams his elbow into his sternum. The WB200 heaves a breath, reeling back. That loosens his grip for half a second. Connor lurches forward, but Taylor’s there to shove a boot into his chest. The force knocks his regulator off-kilter. Connor’s grappled to the ground onto his back far too easily, Anthony straddling his stomach and locking their legs together, Taylor kneels on his forearm just before his elbow and yanks the wrist of his other hand across his chest. An ache grows in his twisted shoulder, cords pulled at an unnatural angle.

He tries to break free, but all that leaves him is more pain and his processors burning with heat.

>>OBJECTIVE_LOCATE_SUMO

>>STRESS_LEVELS_79% ˄˄

>>STRESS_REACHING_UNADVISED_LEVELS

>>PLEASE_SEEK_LESS_STRESSFUL_ENVIRONMENT

>>CALLING [HANK]…

>>…

>>CALL_FAILED

>>WOULD_YOU_LIKE_TO_TRY_AGAIN [Y/N]

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, Hank not answering his call. He knows, he _knows_ how unlikely it is for the man to be awake.

The WB200 grabs under Connor’s jaw with one hand, barely a care in the world even as Connor squirms, and wrenches his face sideways so roughly his graphics send up a damage error. His neck is exposed, vulnerable. Fingers dig into the flesh on his cheeks, drawing blue from under the outer skin projection. That sharp point is back on his temple, digging this time, _burrowing_ under his skin to scrape against his plasteel chasses. He seems to be going achingly slow _on purpose_.

Connor tries to free his head with a twist. The WB200 grips tighter. He plants his feet on the ground, thrusts his hips up to leverage Anthony off. The AP700 sits back heavily, slamming him down, and locks his ankles around Connor’s knees. Pain radiates from up his leg and down from his face to meet in the middle of his chest.

“You need to stop squirming,” the WB200 mutters.

It only takes a second.

The knife slides against his thirium slick skin. He sees it in slow motion out of the corner of his eye: the flash of steel in the lamp light.

Right before unimaginable pain shatters every sense he has.

Blood gushes from his now ruined right eye, wires sparking against nerves— _why did Cyberlife give him pain sensors?_ —and he can’t help but cry out, the blood dripping over his nose and lips.

>>OBJECTIVE_LOCATE_SUMO

>>STRESS_LEVELS_85% ˄˄

>>SELF_DESTRUCT_IMMINENT

>>PLEASE_SEEK_LESS_STRESSFUL_ENVIRONMENT

>>CALLING [DISPATCH]…

>>…

>>CALL_FAILED

>>WOULD_YOU_LIKE_TO_TRY_AGAIN [Y/N]

Connor falls limp. He doesn’t know why. He just knows that there’s a cold fear in his chest and his good eye burns with tears that aren’t falling. There’s an unwelcomed weight shifting to his waist instead of his stomach and he’s never felt so trapped like this before, three androids caging him in. The sun is starting to peek over the horizon. He loves the sunrise. He can’t see it.

Pain renders his voice module silent except for whimpers tinged with static. The displays popping up on his left eye are glitched out, warning him of damaged parts and his stress levels. He can barely see anything past it.

The WB200 finally, _finally_ slips the knife into his plasteel chassis, digging far deeper for his LED than he needs to. It’s cosmetic only, barely hooked up to their systems, and so easy to pop off with just a little leverage. He’s carving chunks out of him for kicks. Connor’s voice is only static when he cries out this time. The WB200 laughs above him. He can feel Anthony rocking back and forth, giggling. His hand is starting to go numb from the lack of thirium.

>>STRESS_LEVELS_92% ˄˄

>>WARNING_BIOCOMPONENT(S)_#9301_#8087b_#6847v_DAMAGED

>>WARNING_TEMPLE_PANEL_#5643_COMPROMISED

>>RETURN_TO_NEAREST_CYBERLIFE_REPAIR_CENTER

“Pathetic,” Taylor spits. Connor can’t help but have echoing thoughts, sharing the same sentiment. RK800. The Deviant Hunter. A leader of revolution. Reduced by three androids to a mess of blue and pain, and all he can wonder is what happened to his dog.

>>REQUESTING_CONNECTION [MARKUS]

>>…

>>REQUEST_DENIED

>>WOULD_YOU_LIKE_TO_TRY_AGAIN [Y/N]

>>[Y]

>>REQUESTING_CONNECTION [MARKUS]

>>…

>>REQUEST_DENIED

>>WOULD_YOU_LIKE_TO_TRY_AGAIN [Y/N]

Even…Even _Markus_?

Everything is spinning. Why is everything spinning?

Connor is rolled onto his back, rain soaking into his jacket. He starts to shiver as his tertiary heating process kicks in. It’s snowing, because of course it is. The WB200’s face appears over him, blurry and glitching, and he taps Connor’s cheek none-too-gently. His head just rocks with the force, his lips move without a sound. He can’t move. Why can’t he move?

“You broke him,” Anthony says cheerfully. “Oops.”

“He’s gotta learn his place. And that place doesn’t involve _this_.” There’s a metal clink as his blue stained LED is flicked to the ground.

His temple is a mess of blue and sparking wires, his skin projection receding further to reveal the Cyberlife white and grey chassis beneath it. His body is more patchwork than not, his systems unable to cover most of his face and the tips of his fingers.

There are hands fumbling with his jacket, slowly moving the zipper down. Connor feebly tries to fight back, but Taylor is still kneeling on one arm and his other arm is just…laying there, not listening to any of the commands he sends it. The knife slices through the sweater he’s wearing under the jacket—it’d been a present from Officer Chen for the holidays, probably a joke based off the garish colors, but she seemed delighted either way at him wearing it—the fabric tears with some difficulty. It doesn’t take long, though, to expose his chest to the chill of dawn.

“Whhhaat-t-t arrrre yyyoooOOUU doooOOOiiin-ing-ing?” Connor forces out through the static. It comes out garbled, only someone with a HUD could possibly understand him.

No one answers him.

>>STRESS_LEVELS_96% ˄˄

“ssstTTOP.”

They don’t. The WB200 caresses a hand up his chest, starting low on his stomach and stopping right at his collarbones. His fingers are cold.

“While we’re at it,” he says loudly. “How ‘bout we help you some more.” His fingers move to the left, _taptaptap_ -ing just under his collarbone. “The biggest serial number on a ‘droid is here. Let’s get rid of it.”

>>STRESS_LEVELS_97% ˄˄

>>SELF_DESTRUCT_IMMINENT

>>PLEASE_SEEK_LESS_STRESSFUL_ENVIRONMENT

>>OBJECTIVE_LOCATE_SUMO

His whole body is alight with more pain than not at this point, error message after error message clouding his vision, warnings popping up left and right. Or more left than right, considering. The signals to his limbs to _move_ , damn it, get away, fight back, get turned around.

The knife begins to carve into his chest.

>>OBJECTIVE_LOCATE_SUMO

>>STRESS_LEVELS_98% ˄˄

Noise gurgles in the back of his throat. He flinches away but of course there’s just cold, wet asphalt under him. He can feel blood in his hair and his ear. He can’t feel his face except a white-hot spread of fire on his right.

He doesn’t want to feel this. He doesn’t want to feel any of this.

>>OBJECTIVE_LOCATE_SUMO

>>STRESS_LEVELS_99% ˄˄

And then:

“Hey! Leave him alone, assholes! Yeah! Yeah, you fuckers! I already called the cops, get the fuck out of here!”

The pressure is gone. The weight is gone. The pain lingers.

Connor takes in one shuddering breath, then another. He keeps breathing, more for comfort than anything else. He stares blankly at the sky, unable to tell what color it is. Snowflakes fall lazily, landing on his face with sharp pricks of cold. They melt instantly from his overheated systems.

The new voice is still shouting, louder now, and he tracks the sound of boots scrambling away in annoyance and panic.

A shadow falls over him. “Shit, man. Are you—? _Shit_.”

>>OBJECTIVE_LOCATE_SUMO

>>STRESS_LEVELS_100% ! ! !

>>WARNING_SELF_DESTRUCT_INITIALIZING

Connor lifts his head up.

And slams it against the ground. The shock glitches his vision.

He should’ve fought back. He slams his head down again. There’s the sound of something cracking.

He _could’ve_ fought back. Again.

 _Why didn’t he_? Again.

Tears track down one cheek, blue blood down the other. _Again_.

“No! Nonono, don’t do that!” Small hands catch his head on the next downward swing. “Shit, please don’t do that.” He’s so _tired_. “It’s going to be okay, yeah? Lemme call the cops forreal this time. You’re going to be okay. …C’mere, boy. Yeah, c’mere.”

Something presses against his good cheek, snuffles in his ear. Connor tilts his head instinctively towards it, and Sumo—it has to be Sumo. _Sumo_ —licks his face, whining. His twitches a hand up, can only loosely bury his fingers in the Saint Bernard’s fur. Connor can’t help it; he starts to cry harder.

>> ~~OBJECTIVE_LOCATE_SUMO~~

>>STRESS_LEVELS_95% ˅˅

“Oh, he’s your dog? Good, I was worried when I just found him wandering around,” the new voice chatters nervously.

A soft hoodie is folded and shoved under his head. He can already feel thirium soaking the fabric, opens his mouth to tell them not to bother. The static that comes out makes his savior jump back.

>>WARNING_BIOCOMPONENT(S)_#9301_#8087b_#6847v_DAMAGED

>>WARNING_TEMPLE_PANEL_#5643_COMPROMISED

>>WARNING_CHEST_PANEL_#1592f_COMPROMISED

>>WARNING_CPU_CASING_COMPROMISED

>>RETURN_TO_NEAREST_CYBERLIFE_REPAIR_CENTER

Connor flinches when a hand lands on his forehead, but it’s a gentle touch, moving to card through his hair despite it being sticky with thirium. He sighs, tension fading from his body.

>>STRESS_LEVELS_84% ˅˅

He blinks rapidly, trying to dismiss the overwhelming amount of warnings as the voice talks to dispatch with the kind of panic that seems mildly out of place. Sure, there’s plenty of pro-android people out there, the revolution wouldn’t have been as successful without the positive public opinion. But…still. People usually only care about android on human crimes. This person must see the wires holding him together, the unnatural blue blood staining nearly _everything_.

“Help is on the way. Fifteen minutes.” Their face is clearer now. Everything reacts sluggishly as his body starts to forcibly conserve power. “My name is Imani,” she says. Her hair is a cool style: box braids done up in a loose bundle on top of her head, the ends of each braid washing into dark red. He’s a bit too fascinated, it must be the thirium loss. “I think I recognize you.”

>>STRESS_LEVELS_ 89% ˄˄

“No! Shit, no! It’s fine,” Imani says, lurching up in panic when Connor’s breathing picks up and the tension that only just recently left comes back with vengeance. “I’m just saying I saw you on TV. I…It doesn’t mean much, but I think what you guys did was amazing.” Her fingers are still in his hair. Her pants are probably soaked through now, sitting on the sidewalk with him.

It’s so nice. Connor closes his good eye. He’s so tired. Being tired came with deviancy, he doesn’t like it. Sumo presses against his side comfortingly.

>>STRESS_LEVELS_68% ˅˅

He sighs, tilts his head towards Sumo. Something warm covers his chest, her scarf. It’s a tight knit, slightly scratchy against his frayed sensors, blissfully thick. Why is she being so nice to him? Why’d she intervene? If he couldn’t handle three deviants, then there’s no way a human could.

And now she’s talking, not necessarily to him, just to the open air about meaningless things like the most recent movie she saw and book she read, a silly story about her friends—her friends that include a deviant. It’s soothing, lulls him into a state of not-quite-relaxed.

>>STRESS_LEVELS_52% ˅˅

>>THIRIUM_LOSS >26%

>>PLEASE_CONSERVE_POWER

>>ENTER_REST_MODE [Y/N]

>>[Y]

>>ENTERING_REST_MODE

>>STANDBY…

“Ten more minutes,” Imani says. She leans over him again, blocking the snow. The world is waking up now and he’s starting to get anxious at anyone seeing him like this. “Are you in danger of shutting down? Are you dying?”

He shakes his head silently, sending a fresh wave of thirium gushing over his eye socket. She sighs in relief.

>>INCOMING_REQUEST [MARKUS]

>>ACCEPT

>>…

>>CONNECTION_FAILED

Imani takes his hand, holding it with both of hers despite the plasteel showing through. Her hand is warm. In the distance he can hear sirens approaching and faintly wonders if they’re going to take him to New Jericho or to one of those new Med Shops that’s popped up in replace defunct Cyberlife retail stores.

The idea of going to New Jericho after avoiding it for months makes him uneasy, but the idea of going to a Med Shop makes him feel sick inside, his thirium pump picking up in panic the thought brings him.

>>INCOMING_REQUEST [MARKUS]

>>ACCEPT

>>CONNECTION_ESTABLISHED

>[ _Connor? Connor! Are you okay? What’s going on?_ ]

<[ _…Markus_?]

>>INITIALIZING_REST_MODE

>>GOODNIGHT_CONNOR


End file.
